Caged Birds
by DarkClerk
Summary: Ryro. After X-Men 3.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know everyone has been waiting like_ years_ for me to finish 'Not Broken' but I would like to point out that I added a chapter there when I added this. Don't worry, I haven't deserted that fic but this one has been pinballing around in my brain for a while, getting in the way of previous work so I'm getting it out of the way. I'm going to try a different format for this fic- short intense chapters that leave you guessing a little. (Rather like their author. ;-) Hopefully, this will make me a little more productive as well. Tell me what you think. Oh, takes place after X-Men 3.

**Caged Birds**

**Chapter 1-**

The mansion was still and silent. In the classrooms and hallways darkness lay heavy and seemingly empty like the depths of the ocean. But something strange and wicked stirred in the periphery . . .

There was a time when an invasion would have been noticed in this house, noticed before it had even begun maybe. But no longer. Those with the ability to detect it were gone. The ones who had stood still and careful with watchful eyes had been lost to war and rage.

They are diminished as we are diminished, he observed with little satisfaction.

He never thought he would come back here. It smelled the same still. Even with mahogany on the floor and priceless artwork in every corner it still smelled like a school- fears and dreams and adolescent anxieties worked into the _walls_. And that smell wanted to yank him backward, pulling at him, trying to plunge him into the person he was when he was caged here. Pyro rubbed the pad of his longest finger over his wrist flint.

No.

He knew what he was. And he was here for a reason.

Gesturing sharply with one hand, he gave his team the move out signal, Mar falling back and Edge taking point. Big Eddie staying behind to keep the exit secure. They moved silently through the halls, relying on the faint illumination coming in through the windows from the security lights of the grounds. At the end of each hallway they would pause for a moment as Mar disabled the security cameras.

It was a well orchestrated op-- two minutes later they had made their silent way to the second floor. Edge stopped in front of Room 217 and waited for the next order. Pyro looked the other two mutants in the eye, getting a ready sign from each in turn. Staring at the door impassively for a moment, he gave one short sharp nod.

Mar put her hand to the knob and then frowned, looking up at Pyro. Problem? He gestured. Was it something she couldn't get through? Something even she couldn't corrode?

She shrugged and then slowly turned the knob to answer his unspoken question.

It wasn't even locked.

Pyro's lip twisted a little.

Of course, why would she lock her door here? The safest place in the world?

Mar pushed the door open gently and fell back, making room for Pyro to enter. He waved the other two to stay put and made his soft way across the room and around the foot of the twin bed.

The figure in the bed remained submerged in sleep, one pale arm lying across the covers and her breathing deep and regular. Her hair slipped across the pillow like a spill of dark water except for one pale lock among the midnight. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, Pyro pulled out one prepared syringe and tugged the cap off absently. Moving forward, he leaned down, his breath almost close enough to stir the hair lying against her cheek. In sleep, she seemed as unchanged as the school around them, still so lovely . . .Pyro plunged the needle into her neck.

Rogue sat straight up in bed, eyes wide as she reached out instinctively to ward off the attack. One of her flailing hands tangled in Pyro's hair and she pressed her palm tight to his face. He saw her remember that she had thrown that protection away even before she recognized him. When her eyes picked him out of the darkness, she opened her mouth to shape his name but the drug took effect before she could give it breath. The only sound that came out of her was something like an, 'aaahn' before she fell back against the pillows, unconscious again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2-**

Rogue- no, not Rogue. _Marie_- was lying on the gurney in front of him. Unconscious still, under the cold lights of their makeshift laboratory she looked like a parody of Sleeping Beauty. Pyro knew there was a metaphor in there somewhere . . . something about a poisoned apple but he couldn't put his finger on it at the moment.

God, he was tired.

He rubbed his eyes with a rough hand and carried the gesture through to tug at his hair. His eyes turned back to Marie and with her, the plan.

Would this work? It was a dicey plan at best and he sure as hell would never have picked her to be its most important component but he didn't have a choice. He was out of options and soon he would be out of time. They all would be.

Beside him, another young mutant, complete with white lab coat and glasses to match the surroundings, stirred uncomfortably, "Sir?" He prompted.

Time was pouring away from them.

"Give it to her. And then put her into one of the cells we prepped. She'll be pissed when she wakes up."

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A few hours later, Pyro walked the corridors of their current base of operations. A forgotten sanitarium in a remote corner of the Appalachians, the building was old and worn and crumbling at the corners. Abandoned after the scourge of tuberculosis had been beaten back by the antibiotics and hygiene of the twentieth century, the sanitarium had been converted to a bomb shelter for government officials for a while before more accessible and comfortable facilities had replaced it. Though still owned by the government, it had fallen into total disuse. A guard was paid a small stipend to come and poke around the property a few times a year but a decent bribe and some intimidation insured that they wouldn't be disturbed. And while the sanitarium was grimy and water damaged, neglect had not destroyed its' good and solid bones.

It suited their purposes admirably.

Pyro turned a corner and then descended a set of wide graceful stairs, noticing absently and not for the first time how the shadow of the buildings previous beauty still laid heavy in some places. He counted three doors down the left side and entered the fourth, into a room where Edge stared sourly into the middle distance, his feet propped up on the table next to a small flat screen monitor.

"Is she awake yet?" Pyro asked.

"No," The other young man shook his head in disgust as Pyro came to stand beside him. Even sitting, leaning back so that he balanced on two chair legs, it was obvious he was taller than John though narrower in the shoulder. A collection of sharp impressions defined him- his nose, the abnormally long fingers of his hands, his long dark eyes- he seemed entirely made of angles and lines. His real name was Tony Verazzano but like the others he had set it aside, "she sleeps like the fricking dead." Edge complained in a lazy voice.

They both regarded the screen for a moment. Rogue slept on, lying on one side with her face toward the camera. Resting on the white padded floor of the cell, they had given her no blanket to cover her close-fitting night gown and they could see where she pillowed her cheek with one hand and the hair that slipped down her bare shoulder.

"I woulda liked a few private minutes with her before-" Edge breathed.

In a sudden violent motion, John kicked the two legs of Edge's chair out from under him before the sentence was even through. When the other mutant flew to his feet, Pyro was already holding a writhing fireball.

"_What the hell_-"

"Shut up." John answered, "If you can't stick to the plan, you're worthless to me. And I might as well get rid of you right now."

Shaking with fury, Edge measured the distance between them, knowing he couldn't get anywhere near arms reach of Pyro before he would be engulfed by the flames. But he wanted to try anyway- Pyro could see him straining against his own sense of self preservation.

But survival won out in the end.

"Sorry, sir." He said finally, relaxing and shifting his weight back onto his heels. But it wasn't until Edge bent over and picked up the fallen chair that Pyro tightened his fist over the fire to extinguish it.

It was the closest thing to a gesture of forgiveness he was capable of.

Likewise, John could see Edge's resentment still in the little stiff movements of his hands. That was fine. John didn't need to be liked, only obeyed.

A motion that came from neither of them caught his attention suddenly and Edge followed his gaze toward the screen.

Rogue was stirring.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3-**

He is leaning against the wall by the door of her cell, arms crossed casually, when Rogue opens her eyes. There is a moment when she recognizes him, but doesn't remember that she should be afraid. He is still just John to her and she almost smiles. The knowledge comes back all of a sudden, washing across her skin like an icy wave and she throws herself into sitting position, sliding back away from him until her back slams into the wall. "John-"

"My name is Pyro."

"Right- _Pyro_." She sneers, "Where am I?"

Crossing the padded floor he comes close and crouches down so that he is balanced on his heels and she can look him in the eye. He can see the resentment rolling underneath her skin, her fury at being caged and helpless that is keeping the fear submerged for now.

"What do you_ want?"_ She demands. Her eyes and lips are vivid against the burning pale of her face.

"I should explain some things to you."

"What things?" She crosses her arms in front of her chest self-consciously as though she has only just realized she is still in her nightgown. A shiver flows through her.

"You can't escape," Looking straight into her face so she can see the truth in his eyes, he tells her, "and no one will find you."

"Logan-"

"Can't track a plane. The professor is dead. Jean Grey is dead. _No one_ will find you." He watches the truth of it blossom inside her, watches her remember the last time she was trapped by the Brotherhood and her helplessness then as now.

"What do you want?" She repeats, this time softly.

He ignores the question, "Second. You've been given an enzyme designed to break down the suppressant in your blood."

Eyes widening in horror, she whispers, "What?"

"Everything has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Just like in physics class." He smiles, cold and mocking, "The _cure_ has a cure." A noise breaks away from her and she pulls her legs up to wrap her arms around them as though to make a wall between her and John. Head falling to press against her knees, her hair slips forward, hiding her face.

Standing, he studies her bent head, measuring her reaction. The dread and grief showers down, soaking into her skin like the sensation of cold that comes from the rain. She takes a deep shuddering breath before straightening her legs, letting her head fall back against the wall. She stares back at him with dry eyes.

"Here," He pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket and tosses them into her lap, "You'll need these soon enough."

Rogue glances down at them, broken-backed doves lying across her legs.

Back to her chains.

Looking up into his eyes she says the first thing that comes into her mind, "I hate you."

"Yeah?" John asks, unimpressed, before opening the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4-**

The next time he comes into her cell, she's sleeping. Still on her side but curled into a ball to preserve body heat. Pyro expects her eyes to open when she hears the door but they seem locked shut, weighed down by exhaustion and the aftereffect of the drugs she had been given. He studies her face, trying to determine if she's faking but sees no movement that would indicate deception.

After a few moments he feels satisfied. She never was much of a liar . . . at least not much of a conscious liar. Crossing the padded floor, he makes a mental note to get her a blanket and a change of clothes. When he reaches down to touch her shoulder, Rogue springs. A fist slams into his nose and his body recoils from the source of the pain automatically. Using the opening, she dashes past him toward the door.

The fireball cuts across Rogue's path, so close she can feel it burning past her belly and she stops in her tracks, panting, one foot still pointed toward the door.

Behind her, harsh laughter sounds and she turns slowly back toward John. "Nice," he observes absently as he wipes some blood from below his nose. "But you wouldn't have gotten farther than the end of the hall."

"_What the hell do you want?"_

Half a second later, Rogue finds herself slammed up against the wall, both hands pinned above her head in an iron grip and John's lean body molded to hers. The hand not trapping her wrists is lying almost gently against the soft bend in her neck where her pulse rests caged under his palm.

He's gotten taller. Not much- he'll never be genuinely tall- but enough so that he is looking down into her eyes instead of across. There's a warm smell like cinnamon and cayenne.

Her own raspy shallow breath edges out all other sounds and Rogue knows John can feel her heart pounding under his hand but she's frozen in place. Something is happening. A feeling stirring that she thought she would never have to feel again and her already racing heart throbs so that she can feel the beat of it to the tips of her fingers, the hollows of her knees, the deepest part of her belly. There's a smoky taste on her tongue.

John leans in so close she can feel his breath against her cheek and across her lips. The pain in her wrists fades away as he stares into her face, searching. She can't seem to turn away from him; there is no room for hiding. His own eyes are a warm chocolaty brown with just a hint of red in the mix like the traces of clay in the fertile earth of Mississippi. Longing washes over the girl for something she can't describe. Then she sees it- the faint blue lace of his veins rising to the surface of his skin.

He releases her abruptly, "Good. In a week or so you should be fine."

Shaking and sick where she leans against the wall, Rogue feels husk-brittle with her own helplessness. She stares upward into the merciless light to keep the tears from sliding down her face, "Someday-" She promises, "someday soon, I'm going to _hurt you_."

"How was it?"

For a moment Rogue can't hear him, can't make sense of the words.

"How was what?" She whispers to the ceiling. And then recoils, thinking that he wants to know is how the crouching, coiling power was beginning to stir in her.

"Being human. Was everything you thought it would be?"

He wants to know- looking away to dash the tears from her eyes, Rogue can just catch a glimpse of the shape of him, arms crossed as he leans against the opposite wall to watch her. When she doesn't answer, Pyro continues on in the same casual mocking tone, "You know what I don't understand? Why do you still live there? You were human- all nice and normal. And it's not like things with Bobby worked out," Her head snaps to the side away from his words as though she has been slapped, "So, why didn't you go out and live that safe little life you wanted so badly instead of hanging around teaching social studies to a bunch of freak kids?"

He keeps using the past tense like that life is a country completely lost to her. She wants to claw his eyes out.

"Maybe it's because even you know you're not one of the nice normal people."

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John pauses in the corridor just around the corner to the stairs in the one blind spot between the reach of the cameras. Tipped against the wall, he leans his head back in unconscious imitation of her. There's a bitter metallic taste in his mouth that he attributes to adrenalin caused by Rogue's returning power. When he thinks of that moment, his hands on her, a shudder runs through him.

No. They are not the nice normal people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5-**

Rogue glares at the door like she could batter it down with the force of her stare. When it finally opens and John passes through, she gazes at him with the same determined hatred. He smiles sharply in reply and waves a young woman into the cell. She carries a tray with a plate of eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice balanced on it.

When the smell reaches Rogue, her stomach growls loudly, "Decided to feed me finally?"

John glances at her naked hands, "Gloves first."

"Go to hell."

"Fine," Jerking his head toward the door, he signals the young woman-

"Fine," Rogue echoes, snatching up the gloves lying beside her and yanking them on.

The young woman carries the tray forward. When she kneels down, Rogue can see a faint scar running from below her jaw and up one side of her face, "If we'd fed you earlier, you only would have thrown it up." The woman explains in a quiet voice, "The true cure causes intense nausea in the first twelve hours. Lucky for you, you slept through the worst of it."

"This is Mar." John informs Rogue as he leans against the wall by the door, his arms crossed casually, "When you're done eating, she'll take you to get a shower and a change of clothes. Then we'll talk."

"Wait-" but he is gone and out the door.

Rouge regards the glistening eggs and rapidly cooling toast for a second. The eggs are scrambled and a bottle of Tabasco sauce sits beside the plate. Just the way she likes them. Her eyes turn uncertainly to the woman who stands at parade rest by the door, still as a statue as she stares into the middle distance. Rogue's stomach rumbles again and with a shrug, she picks up the fork.

While she eats, shoveling the food into her mouth with a hasty lack of grace, Rogue studies the other woman. She is not much more than a girl- just a little older than Rogue probably. Like many mutants she had seemed older at first, the necessity of hiding and survival weighing her down probably. Her clothes are similar to John's- dark with a kind of military nondescript-ness. Under the scar and stiff expression, her face is quite pretty, with soft brown eyes heavily lashed. But her dark hair is pulled back too tightly, anchored at the base of her neck like a stone.

Noticing Rogue's eyes on her, she asks, "Done?"

"What?" Rogue glances down at the empty plate, wishing for a moment that there was more, "Oh- yes."

"Come with me." The girl- Mar gestures to the door, ignoring the abandoned tray.

"Where too?"

"Shower. Just like the Commander said."

Commander. _Hmph._

Rising to her feet, Rogue pauses at the door as well, "Why do they call you Mar?"

The stiff expression cracks a little, a tiny slice of a smile showing and the girl bends over to pluck a stray leaf off the floor of the corridor. Holding the piece of green between her thumb and forefinger, she keeps her eyes on Rogues' face as the leaf curls and browns, crumbling to dust as Marie watches.

Right.

Mar leads her down the hallway, turning the corner and marching up a set of stairs. On the next floor, they pass a bank of windows opening onto a vista of unending green.

"Where are we?" Rogue asks, looking out over the vast expanse of trees. Somewhere mountainous but not that tall or rocky- East of the Mississippi then- the Appalachians or the Catskills maybe.

"I can't tell you that." The other girl answers curtly.

"Of course not." Rogue mutters, trailing behind, studying this new glimpse of her prison. There are cameras everywhere in the hallways, probably in her cell as well. The building looks like an abandoned hospital or hotel, built before the turn of the century probably.

Filing the details away in case they offer a clue to escape, Rogue didn't notice Mar pause until it was almost too late. She came ridiculously close to running into the back of the other woman.

As Rogue skids to a sudden stop, Mar indicates the open doorway on her right with a nod of her head. Through it, Rogue can see a bank of frosted windows that pour light onto the pale tile. Underneath the windows are a row of wooden stalls, presumably hiding toilets,

"The ground drops off below the windows." Mar explains, "Unless you can fly, this is door is the only way in or out of this room. There are fresh clothes on the bench. You have half an hour."

Rogue asks sourly, "You're not coming in?"

"Do you want me to?"

Not bothering to answer, Rogue enters the room, listening to her footsteps echo on the antique tile. The entire room is white and glossy and just a little chilly. Opposite the toilets on the interior wall are a bank of sinks and mirrors. Stepping past the toilets, Rogue turns her head and watches her reflection trail her. Does she look different? The young woman pauses, tugged toward the mirror. Is that a dark gleam in her eye? Evidence of the power rising up under her skin . . .

Shaking her head like a dog, Rogue turns away from the mirrors. On the far end of room, well away from the door are the shower stalls. There's a white painted bench bolted to the floor in front of them. A dark pile of clothes rests on it, neatly folded and accompanied by a pale towel, rolled up like an English cream cake. Rogue turns 360, surveying the room as a whole. There is no other exit she can see, and even if Mar was lying about the drop from the windows, Rogue doubts she could reach them anyway. They are so far off the ground that even climbing onto one of the toilets, she wouldn't be able to touch the glass.

At her feet is a grated drain set into the floor. Rogue had heard of mutants who could become liquid or stretch themselves impossibly small or thin. She sighs. But not her.

No way out for now. She might as well get clean.

Stripping off her clothes, she stands under the spray. Safe in the thunder of the water, her body relaxes and the sobs come all of a sudden, racking her slender frame. Rogue's hands scrabble at the slick walls. She presses her forehead to the tile and John's words trample through her head, 'No one is coming for you'. How was she ever getting out of this?

Eventually exhausted, Rogue just closes her eyes and lets herself pretend that she is standing in her own shower, protected in the mansion. Nothing to be afraid of, safe at home. . .

Mar's voice slaps away her fantasy, "Ten minutes!"

What would happen, Rogue wonders, if she just stayed where she was? If she sits down in the shower and refuses to move.

Nothing good, probably.

Legs and hands shaking, she steps out and dries herself, rough and hasty. Wrapping the towel around her body, she glances down to study the clothes.

They are pretty much the same as Mar's and John's. Black cargo pants, a white tank top, gray tshirt and a dark blue zip up hoodie to go over it all. On the floor, is a pair of military style boots, the kind that lace half way up the calf. There is even a fresh pair of gloves. Pausing as her hand closes around the cotton underwear at the top of the pile, Rogue almost breaks down again. She has no idea where they have come from, how many people have handled them- the thought churns the food in her stomach to a sour mash.

Closing her eyes, she tugs them on as fast as she can, then throws the other clothes on over them. Every place the fabric rests against her skin feels like an alien touch.

I'm being stupid, she thinks, lacing up the boots. If I can't take this, put on some strange clothes, I'm never getting out of here.

I have to be tougher.

Taking a steadying breath, the girl walks over to the sinks and begins to braid her hair, tight and even like she would if she were going into the Danger Room.

Dressed and clean and gloved, Rogue meets Mar back at the door, "What's next?" She asks.

Mar leads her across the building and then back down again to the basement level. Rogue rubs her fingers together, feeling the irritating friction of the material of the glove scrapping against itself. The feeling makes her want to rip the gloves off fiercely enough to peel her treacherous skin away with them. It makes her want to pound her fists against the walls and scream.

In a corridor that looks a lot like the one that holds Rogue's cell, they meet John. He gives Mar a terse nod, then pushes open the door on his left. He looks at Rogue like he is daring her to walk through.

Lifting her chin, she marches past him. The room is tiny and windowless, holding nothing but a metal table and two chairs. Rogue seats herself, noting the manilla envelope resting on the table's surface, the only color in the room. Crossing her legs and then her arms, Rogue watches John enter and pull the door shut behind him.

Before he can speak or even sit down, Rogue demands, "What do you want from me, _Pyro_?"

He smiles. Not in a nice way. "Let's talk."

"You kidnapped me out of my bed to talk?"

But instead of speaking, he picks up the envelope, emptying it out on the table with one hand. Glossy white paper spills out onto the tabletop. He picks one sheet seemingly at random and flips it over, setting it in front of Rogue.

Frowning, the girl sits forward to get a better look and her face blanches. The photograph shows a middle aged man laying in a puddle of blood, leaking from what seems like hundreds cuts across his chest and arms and face . . . Another photo hits the table. A woman rests on a bed, her eyes wide open and a gaping hole in her chest. The edges of her nightgown are curled and blackened around the wound. Rogue's breath catches painfully. Another photo. Two little girls also laying in their beds, they could be sleeping except for the stiff way the bigger girl's hand flops over the edge, something red and sticky rolling off her fingers. Bitter tears fill Rogue's throat. Still another photo. A young couple wrapped around one another in a dank alleyway-

"What is this?" Rogue demands, staring into Johns' face so she doesn't have to look at the horrors spread out in front of her.

"This is Aaron Armitage" He taps the first photo with one finger, "He was a class three telekinetic until he took the cure. A month ago someone broke into his office and killed him. There were more than a hundred cuts on his body, at least of ten them would have been fatal. But all the cuts were made simultaneously."

He nudges the next two photos of the woman and the little girls tucked into their beds. "This was Thora Symonds and her two daughters. She took the cure eight months ago- at the same clinic you used. She was concerned the court would award custody of the girls to her ex-husband if she didn't."

"How-" Rogue's voice is a dry breath. She swallows and tries again, "How old were the girls?"

"Eight and ten."

"Ah-" Rogue presses her hand to her mouth to keep the sound inside. Shaking her head, she turns her face away, "Why are you showing me these?"

He slides another photo forward, "This is-"

"What's the point, John?" She tucks her hands into the crooks of her elbows to stop the shaking that seems to have taken over her body. "Did you bring me here to brag about what you and the Brotherhood-"

He's around the table faster than she would have thought possible. Grabbing her by the arm, he yanks her to her feet, "Is that what you think we do?" He snatches up one of the pictures and shoves it in her face, "We don't murder defenseless little girls!"

"Then who?" She pulls hard at her arm and he releases her suddenly so that she falls back into the chair. She catches herself against the table and the terrible photographs scatter.

John retreats back around to the other side of the room, his pale face flushed, "They call themselves The Marauders. They're mutants- mercenaries for hire."

Rogue whispers, "What?" Her breakfast rolls in her gut once again.

"They're assassins."

"Why? These people were no threat to anyone- their powers are gone."

John makes a sound of contempt, "Stop pretending you don't know what was happening."

Rogue starts, a jerking motion that makes the legs of her chair scrape against the floor. Then shakes her head in denial, "I don't-"

"Don't tell me you couldn't feel it," He insists flatly, "the power trickling back, growing under your skin."

Rogue shakes her head harder. No. It wasn't true. He couldn't know that. She hadn't told anyone. She never told anyone-

"It must have been hard for you," He continues, his voice growing soft and gently mocking. He sits down across from her deliberately, "feeling the power grow stronger every time you touched someone. Did it make you want to stop, just so you could pretend it wasn't happening?" He tilts his head to the side, "Or did it make you want to touch them more?"


End file.
